


Mixed Bag

by stephanericher



Category: Kuroko no Basuke | Kuroko's Basketball
Genre: KNBxNBA, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-02
Updated: 2017-08-02
Packaged: 2018-12-10 06:36:28
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,310
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11686080
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stephanericher/pseuds/stephanericher
Summary: Taiga’s whole body lifts up again, like his vertical’s so good he can dunk the moon; Tatsuya’s coming here.





	Mixed Bag

**Author's Note:**

> remember that throwaway line in that one kagahimu where tatsuya said the bulls needed a pg
> 
> i have noooo excuses lmao but hbd taiga

Taiga wakes up the day of the deadline feeling something. A weightlessness, a limitlessness, like he’s in the zone almost, but that’s a poor comparsion (the best he can do for now, though). He’s feeling lucky, like if he were to buy a lotto ticket, if he’d needed the money. It’s weird, some remnant of a half-remembered dream, only he can’t remember any of it, and it sticks through when he shaves and towels off his hair and texts Tatsuya good morning, wishes him luck in practice.

He thumbs through his texts, ranging back almost a year to the last time he’d texted Midorima.

_Hey, is there some such thing as spontaneous luck?_

The reply is nearly instantaneous. _Leo is in first place today. Your lucky item is a plastic straw. Please get one; I need you to beat Philadelphia tonight._

Taiga rolls his eyes. So this is all about playoff seeding, huh? He’d say it’s a sure thing, but despite how many rumors he’s tried to ignore his teammates are always filling in, telling him he ought to prepare for various potential scenarios (telling him which teams have scouts in the stands, Mavs or Lakers or Magic or whoever), teammates leaving, teammates coming. Taiga would rather not prepare for the wrong thing, and it’s not like he’s changed his routine all that often depending on his teammates. Depending on who they give up, who they get, how those guys fit in, it might need some adjusting, a game or two.

Then again, they won’t have that luxury in the playoffs, where they’re headed, where they could be contending again (they’d said that last year, too, and all that had ended up with was a first round exit). And Taiga knows firsthand he can feel on top of the world, take down half the court, and his team can still lose. He’s not out there every minute; this isn’t fucking high school (when he’d nearly fucked up his knee anyway).

So he saves the straw from his morning Starbucks; he might feel invincible and limitless and Midorima’s superstitions are probably just total bullshit, made up by someone with too much time on their hands, but it can’t hurt.

* * *

The Knicks don’t have a game until tomorrow, just practice, a shootaround with the stiff-lipped GM, arms crossed over his chest. The coaches are conferring with him, frowning at their clipboards; the whole team’s a little on edge, even after the GM retreats to his office. The all-star break had come and gone; they’re basically out of the playoff picture; every one of them is an asset who can be sold for the future. Role players, the extra piece for a later draft pick; starters past their prime with so-called intangibles who won’t be counted on for quite so many minutes on a legit team; guys like Tatsuya with a year or two after this one on their contracts, a little bit more than a win-now rental. Tatsuya tries not to think about it; win or lose, this is his town, the place he’d made a name for himself after the Heat had all but written him off, played the system to his strengths. He'd like to stay here, but missing the playoffs burns; missing them two years in a row is going to burn hotter. He thinks about Taiga, across the floor, the court gleaming with the playoffs logo, the stands full of shrieking fans, and almost misses his shot.

“Himuro. GM wants you.”

They all know what this means; at least they put up the illusion of giving Tatsuya his space, but it feels more like they’re rubbernecking as he heads to the executioner. The GM’s door is open; Tatsuya walks in to see the him silencing the ringer on his phone again and sigh.

“I’ll cut to the chase, Himuro. We have a three-team deal in place. We’re sending the rights to a guy we got in Europe and a draft pick to Dallas. You’re going to Chicago.”

Tatsuya’s tongue, his whole mouth, feels numb. He can’t speak. Chicago, Taiga, leaving. Taiga!

“What did you get for me?”

“A couple of first-rounders, Manning from Chicago. Chicago sent a couple of players to Dallas, too, and I think they’re getting another pick.”

“Oh,” says Tatsuya.

“Stiff price to pay, but if you’re here, stealing games for us—”

“You want to tank. I want to win. It works.”

“Yes. Now, when your contract’s up in a few years, if you’re interested, I don’t want us to part on hard terms.”

“It’s a business,” says Tatsuya. “I understand.”

* * *

The locker room is in disarray by the time Taiga gets there, after a semi-serious emergency meeting with a bunch of the other guys who make up the Bulls’ core (well, before it expands again; it’s going to; there’s no way Tatsuya isn’t part of it immediately, or at least in Taiga’s mind). Two trades, three new players, two coming in from Portland (where they’d both played with Clay; he’ll be helping them out at first) and Tatsuya coming in from New York. Taiga’s whole body lifts up again, like his vertical’s so good he can dunk the moon; Tatsuya’s coming here. He hasn’t had a chance to text him yet, that he’s going to be meeting him at the airport (obvious, but still), that he’s going to love it there (maybe that’s not the thing to tell Tatsuya, but let him find out soon enough).

First, Taiga’s got to wade through the confusion, the nameplates swapped out for blanks and all the crap getting shoveled into equipment bags, all three departing players yelling on their phones to their agents about apartment rentals and cars and school districts. Shit. As much as Taiga wants Tatsuya here, as glad as he is, he’s not happy that someone else has to leave for it to happen. It’s the nature of the game, the salary cap, the roster size; it’s still a fracture in their tight clubhouse dynamics.

“Hey, be happy; your boy’s coming from New York; we finally have someone who can legit play the one so Coach will shut up about that for a few games before he finds something else to complain about,” says Clay, ruffling his hair.

“I know,” says Taiga.

* * *

Tatsuya had shelled out the fifty dollars for inflight wifi, which he usually grumbles about being extortion, just to keep up with Taiga on LINE. So what if they’d seen each other just a few days ago at the all-star game? They hadn’t even thought this would be possible, that they’d have to plan for Tatsuya inserting himself into Taiga’s life, into Taiga’s city and Taiga’s team. Which this very much is, as much as Taiga’s already referred to it as theirs. Maybe Tatsuya can’t judge until he gets there, and it’s not like that’s a net drawback. It’s the price he’s going to pay for playing with Taiga, and in the scheme of things it’s small. Worth it already.

He hadn’t checked a bag, just brought whatever he could carry and had thought he’d needed; the airport’s crowded enough in the middle of the afternoon (even in February) that he slips by unnoticed, through the crowds and past the snaking security line for people heading out. And there, on the other side, is Taiga, caught by a pair of elementary-school girls who are begging him to sign stuff. The smile on his face is warm, even from far away; Tatsuya would say that makes him look closer but he’s always been bad with depth. Tatsuya stands and watches, until Taiga looks up and his face brightens even more, like the inside of a toaster.

“Welcome home,” he whispers, holding Tatsuya so close to him that Tatsuya feels like he’s about to get squished (but still, that Taiga should hold him tighter).


End file.
